As they left Florence, dying men and women still scrabbled through the streets, screams emanating from the rows of houses, beggars running up to the horses, sick children in their arms, their eyes bleeding, their noses running, begging to join them in their journey out. During the wet monsoon the west beach was always littered. She recoiled. “You must answer me, Annabel,” she continued. ’ She spoke with difficulty, holding down the rising emotion that threatened to overwhelm her.
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